


The Barnes Family Portrait

by Haunted_Frost



Series: The White Wolf [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Art, Artist Steve Rogers, Avenger Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes-centric, Family, Gen, Identity Reveal, Reunions, Secret Identity, Steve Rogers Feels, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 08:31:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14016330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haunted_Frost/pseuds/Haunted_Frost
Summary: "I began by being perplexed about my body; and I ended by being anxious about my soul. In short, I wished to know what I was." -Adolphe MonodBucky Barnes wrenches control back with his own two hands, and so does Steve - they find each other anyway, because the whole Barnes family is built to last, and so are they.Alternate title: Steve runs far and fast from SHIELD, Bucky breaks free and Avenges New York, and Kim Proctor just wanted to make a friend in art class.





	The Barnes Family Portrait

* * *

He grimaced as he went to the microphone.  All the behind-the-scenes trials, all the protection and intelligence agencies in one room going over the evidence, the running, the arguing, the repetition, the psychoanalysis, everything was over.  He didn’t have to do this, but it just seemed right. 

“I am the White Wolf.  The Avengers have had me here for some time, but I’m making an official statement to you all about how I got here.  I’m aware that very few people know about me and what I’ve done.  A full report on my arrest, recovery, and trial will be available to the general public fairly soon.  What you might know about me now is this—I was an assassin known as the ‘Winter Soldier’, sent by Hydra to kill the Avengers.  I was brainwashed, cryo-frozen between missions, and was their mindless asset.  I was their tool for years—they forced me to do things that I am still appalled by.  But I broke free of their programming, and I’ve made a choice to be open about who I am.”  He pulled off the mask. 

“My name is Sargent James Buchanan Barnes.” Gasps ripped through the hall.  “My friends call me Bucky, or at least they would if I had any friends.”  Scattered laughter. 

 _“Damn it, do not quote Disney movies at SHIELD-wide conferences,”_ Nat hissed in his ear over a small comm.  “ _You are a grown man._ ”

Had anyone else—Stark, Barton, even Fury—said it, he would have continued with it like a challenge.  _If you want to ask questions, be my guest.  How did we get here? Well, you got me.  By all accounts, it doesn’t make sense._ Et cetera.  But Natalia was not to be messed with. 

“I’m the same Bucky Barnes that was best friends with Steve Rogers, better known as Captain America.  I was born in 1917.  As of next week, I will be an official member of the Avengers, so the rest of my files, missions, and background will be available to the public on the Avengers PR page.  I’m officially an Avenger, not Hydra. . . Ta-da.  This press conference was really only for this announcement, so I’ll be heading out.  Thanks for your time.”  He stalked offstage, questions hissing behind him. 

“Someone get me to the Tower before I punch someone’s lights out for asking anything about Hydra or Steve,” he said evenly to the other Avengers. 

“Believe me, I’m willing to send a few asses flying,” Stark agreed. 

“Let me in, god _dammit_ ,” a young voice called from a door, “My grandma is his little sister, _you pompous dicks_ , I don’t care!” Bucky’s eyes widened and he opened the door. 

“He’s a kid; let him in,” he told the guard, who frowned but let the teen through. 

“You sound like me in a temper; I had to check,” he explained.  The kid was probably sixteen or so. 

“I’m Scott Proctor.  My grandma is Rebecca Barnes-Proctor.  Hey, Uncle Buck,” he said with a grin.  And yeah, so that looked a little like Becca. 

“Good to meet you, Scott.  I’m going to kill Director Fury for not informing me that Becks was alive. Wanna help me bury the body?”

“Shouldn’t we spread ashes instead to keep him from being a zombie ever?”

“Good point.”

“Oh my _god_ it runs in the family,” Stark despaired, hamming it up for the kid. 

“I’m a criminal science major, dude.  I was here for a school project on international politics and this kind of interrupted any of that.  Trip let me in on a favor.”

“Do you know where she lives?  How’s she doing?” Bucky turned the conversation to the more important subject: how was he not going to get his ass handed to him by his sister. 

“Sure. Grandma, Uncle Seb, Uncle Jeff, and Aunt Tonya will be really happy to see you.  And—the _Howlies_ , oh my god, we have family dinners with them, they’ll be so excited, man.”

“Did _anyone_ I know die?  Fury’s murder is going to take longer, it looks like,” he grumbled.  “He kept my family from me.” And he was so _sick_ of people trying to make him heel like a dog. 

* * *

 Before

“Longing.” SUBMIT said the handler SUBMIT “Nine. Benign.” OBEY OBEY “Freight car.” OBEY _god please no more please_

The Asset was dead.  The Soldier remained, remembered—not quite Hydra, not quite their Fist anymore.  But echoes, oh, the echoes of what made the Asset exist, the Creation memories—it _ached._

It examined its arm—sleek, cold, heavy.  Its other—warm, rough with scars in places.  Flesh, bone, metal, all in one weapon created to . . .

_SUBMIT_

No, the ache proclaimed inside, no, not created to submit. 

No, the Soldier decided (is that a thing a soldier can do?) not created.  Forced.  Because there had been a response, once upon a time, to the orders, a response that was not an affirmation, not a report, not a yes. 

No. 

“Soldier?”

That strange refusal—that _ache_ inside telling that (something/someone/somewhere) had existed before the Asset.  That the Asset, the Soldier, had not been created. 

“No.”

* * *

 The man he’d known, his name was once Steven Grant Rogers.  He was referred to now as Captain America.  _Let’s hear it for Captain America!_  The Soldier’s voice, rousing other soldiers to cheer. No, his name—

The Captain was closer.  Captain was safer, predictable enough for a Soldier. 

And the Soldier had a subroutine in its new mission.  Hydra—which had done something to the someone the Asset used to be—could never lay its claws into the Captain—the Captain, who was dead.  No, Hydra would not gain another asset ever again.  That would be unacceptable.  The Soldier was going to burn Hydra to the ground. 

* * *

There were small flickers at first.  _Memories_ said the part of its mind that raged against things like _asset_ and _Hydra_ but warmed at thoughts of the Captain.  Warmed at some of the flickers that felt older, like they were dusty, aged. 

It went to DC, drifting towards the nation’s biggest monuments.  _You will shape the world, Asset.  Shape it into Hydra’s image._ Again, a rebellion came to mind. 

 _Not in a thousand years, asshat, will I take orders from you_.  A specific one, born of a direct hate that was hot enough to sear.  Bitterness overtook it; clearly a thousand years had not passed.  Hydra had taken it apart. 

 _God, please, don’t break, Barnes,_ it’d thought to itself at that point, before. 

Don’t break?  So, Hydra had tortured a man and made him into the Asset.  Trained him, took his memories away, until all that was left was a puppet.  This person—Barnes? Perhaps a surname—didn’t get to live out their life.  Hydra took away the person, left a machine, a weapon.  The Soldier frowned. 

“Barnes,” it tried, and a floodgate opened.  He only caught snippets in the current threatening to sweep him away. 

_Aw, come on Barnes, you think that little shrimp is even worth your time?_

_James Buchanan Barnes!  You go bring your sister to school right now!_

_Hey Barnes, look at that, you’re moving up in ranks._

_Barnes, a good subject—strong, great sniper, might even survive the treatment._

_Sargent James Buchanan Barnes, 32557038._

_Bucky Barnes, as I live and breathe!_

_Bucky!_

_Barnes, is that you?  What the devil—_

God above, he’d been a man before he’d been a soldier.  The Soldier. 

He’d been Bucky Barnes, whoever that was, full name James Buchanan Barnes.  It wasn’t a lot to go off of, and clearly there was some relationship he was missing with the Captain.  But it was enough, maybe, to make a person out of him again. 

The Soldier shaped the world, huh?  Well, if he’d been around as long as he suspected, he might be able to find out about who he used to be. 

* * *

The Soldier threw up in an alley after the Smithsonian.  It was too much, too quick.

It’s difficult, but he made his way.  He used fake IDs he used to have for missions.  He got to a public library and started searching on the computer—

 _James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes_.

Multiple articles.  But there was a birth date and a death date—days before the first scientific reports on his arm.  _They took him_. 

So, he clicked on an article.  _Bucky Barnes._   And read.  He kept reading and reading only stopping for the flickers that came with recognition. 

And what would Bucky Barnes do?  It seemed, based off of these articles and the feelings he had when he’d been the asset: Protect Steve Rogers. 

Steve Rogers was dead, soon after his own fall—but the Avengers, maybe . . . maybe following the Captain’s lead could honor the dead.  Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers.  Winter Soldier and Captain America.  Super soldiers made into superheroes.

“Ah, fuck it all,” he muttered under his breath, an accent starting to drip into his rhythm and tone.  “Looks like I hafta head back to Brooklyn.”

* * *

Now

_Rebecca Evelyn Barnes-Proctor.  Tonya Martha Barnes.  Sebastian Alexander Barnes.  Jefferson Lewis Barnes._

Bucky Barnes had been the eldest of four. 

He gritted his teeth as he looked down the street.  Bucky Barnes had been dead.  But, inexplicably, they were all alive.  Becca and Seb were grandparents—what the fuck—and Tonya had kids as well, but no grandbabies. 

And Becca lived with her grandkids in a brownstone downtown.  Sure.  He could check up on them, at least—

“No, seriously, come on.  Trip has been giving me so much shit for being like you; he’ll never live this down.”

* * *

 “Today’s open studio,” said Professor Rizzo, “and I have the still-lifes set up if you want.  I’m going to come around a few times, check out your progress, and let you do your things.  Have at it.”

Steve started with some vine charcoal, laying out thin, dark lines where he wanted them.  Kim, next to him, was active—swiping splotchy marks across the page.  Vague swirls layered quickly to form a Picasso-like body.  Her hands were already covered in multicolor chalk.  Steve envied her quick, easy style of just laying everything on the page. 

He was still putting down linework. 

“I wish I was brave enough to throw things on the paper like that.  I’m always second-guessing it,” he said.  Kim grinned. 

“So am I.  I just—well I wish I had your eidetic memory, so I wouldn’t have to cut and paste reference pictures all day.”  Already the chalk was molding itself on her page—blending, folding, deepening into things it wasn’t before.  Her spidery scribbles were wrinkles in a forehead and frizzed hair.  The awkward angles straightened themselves out, curved to form hunched shoulders. 

Steve was drawing the trenches and dog tags hanging front and center.  The reflection on metal was difficult, even with his own dog tags hanging from the easel as reference. 

Rizzo passed by. 

“Don’t hold back, Kim.  You’re fine.  Any questions?” 

“Is making the hotspots cold throwing everything off?”

“Nah, it’s really cool—loving the icy contrast.  Don’t be afraid to neutralize chromatically though.  I can tell the difference.”

“I’ll do what I want,” she quipped, “You can pry my box neutrals from my cold, dead, hands.  Things need to be flatter sometimes.”  Rizzo pushed his glasses up his nose and chuckled. 

“Right.  Roger, how’s that coming?”

“Trying to decide what to put on the tags.  No color for this one, I think.”

“You’re going to have to pull out the color at some point,” he said.  Steve sighed. 

“For most of my life I was colorblind.  My sense of color theory just doesn’t jive anymore with what’s real.”

“Doesn’t have to, as long as you’ve got the light and dark right.  Go with what you know, adjust after.   I think your black and white work is stunning, really, but you could be doing more.  Can you bring in a few color studies in your sketchbook by Friday?”

Kim offered her two cents.  Once she got talking, she didn’t stop. 

“I mean, I know what he talks about with chromatics, I just disagree about the flatness he thinks it creates,” she shrugged.  “If you mix everything to some degree, you get brown.  You get brown faster with the box set, and you can augment it with others to get the same effect as the chromatic mixing.  But here,” she pulled a loose page from her sketchbook, handing it off.  “His notes mostly reference these sources, plus a few of my favorites.  See if those videos help.” Titles and urls—well, it was a start.  He could at least listen to the color theory lessons on his own, even during transport for missions. 

“What’s your concept?” he asked her.  She grinned. 

“My grandma.  She’s a hell of a person—second-oldest of five, grew up in the Depression in Brooklyn.  She took no shit.  Still doesn’t—my brother Scott and I live with her while we’re working through college.”  A pang of emotion ripped through him; he probably knew her grandmother personally.  It was the first time in a while that he’d felt so out of place.  Out of time. 

* * *

 Before

Steven Grant Rogers had been a good fighter, but he was not an idiot.  When they’d put him in that room, playing that ball game, he knew it wasn’t real, and he kept running.  He vaguely recognized New York—but everything was too bright, too _much_. 

Something was terribly wrong. 

Regardless, it was his city, and he banked on the little knowledge he hoped had stayed the same—the layout.  He ran like hell through the maze of side streets, of alleys.  He did _not_ want a part of whatever those agents in black gear were trying to put him through, and he needed to get creative if he was going to lose them. 

So, he made sure there was enough distance, enough turns that they couldn’t possibly have eyes on him—and jumped in a dumpster, bringing the lid down lightly and squeezing between trash bags.  It was rank, disgusting—but so were the trenches, he thought grimly, and he didn’t have backup this time.  He didn’t have backup _anywhere_. 

Then he’d waited—and apparently, they’d overestimated his body, and underestimated his mind, because he heard them curse out his running capabilities right next to the bin.  No one even opened it. 

Later he would scoff at the government agency’s supposed professional espionage tacticians.

But at that point, he was scrappy as ever.  So, once he was certain enough they’d moved on, he’d gotten out of the bin.  Running now would be suspicious; however, he had to get out of the city quickly before they set up a barrier of any kind. 

He started walking. 

* * *

 That was a few years ago, the strange agents, everything.  He’d been homeless, trying to figure out this strange world.  Apparently, whoever the people were, they’d not been able to find him.  He walked far, and worked odd jobs, and ate at cheap restaurants.  A vagrant.  A migrant.

He wandered, did jobs for strong men, because they required less paperwork and he didn’t have the paperwork.  He found people who could fake it for him—much as he hated dishonesty, he wanted to avoid the agents that had him in the first place.  So, he had been frozen for seventy years—he could work with that.  Mourn everyone like they’d no doubt mourned him.  It was a new century.  It was a _new century_ and here he was. 

He familiarized himself with tech, with history, with culture (Social media amused and aggravated him at turns, depending on who was doing the talking).  And he got a small house in Woodstock that he lived in and drove from to do jobs while he went to school—he’d improved his records enough to apply for art school—and that had landed him here. 

* * *

 Now

Steve sat down to eat and watched the news. 

“The Avengers,” the newscaster began, “Are continuing to evade the public eye in regards to their personal identities.  With me, I have Agent Sharon from the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, here to explain the need for secrecy.  Thank you for joining me, Agent.”

“Hello, Anna, it’s good to be here.” Sharon was a sharp woman, answering the questions clearly and replying with “no comment” instead of dithering when things got confidential.  Finally, they came down to the end of the interview. 

“The bottom line is, can we trust people that hide their faces to actually protect us?”

“Can we trust evil people not to put their loved ones in danger if they’re known to the public?” Sharon challenged back, “Transparency was important in the fallout of the Hydra infiltration of SHIELD.  I understand that.  But the Avengers are not Hydra.  They don’t pretend to be normal only to kill innocents.  They keep secrets to protect others, so that they can continue to operate.”

“I wonder if they need a leader, though.  Someone who can assure us that they are not Hydra.”  This was leading, and not part of the scheduled interview, if Sharon’s tenseness was anything to go by. 

“And Tony Stark’s backing isn’t enough?  He certainly wouldn’t be Hydra—his father was one of SHIELD’s founders, knew Captain America—”

“Ah, but Captain America isn’t dead, is he?  Some of our best researchers did look through the data dump, after all.  There was a potential soldier some years ago, but records say he escaped.”  Sharon grimaced. 

“I was a part of the retrieval team.  We were cocky; a random man, with just a serum enhancing him, being able to escape modern trained spies with SHIELD tech?  We forgot all about his tactician mind, which he was _chosen_ for.  Yes, he escaped, because we’d attempted to ease him into the position slowly, and he caught on to the ruse immediately.  The Avengers are currently in possession of his shield and a new suit design from Stark.  If the Captain happens to see this,” she inhaled loudly, “I’d like to apologize formally to you.  We did you a disservice; perhaps it was for the best, considering SHIELD’s status at the time.  And maybe you’re right, Anna.  Maybe we need Captain America.  But he’s a man who would need more training and time with the team before we could even fathom letting him lead it.  I can’t speak for the Avengers personally, but I—well.  I’m Peggy Carter’s niece.  I certainly wouldn’t mind having Captain America on our side.”

He drew his color studies in a rush—so much red, blue, _chromatic white_ , so many bits and pieces _bullets_ and metal and Peggy’s smile and Bucky’s eyes and—

his shield. 

* * *

Bucky ducked his head as Scott brought him to their home.  _God, Becca, you never moved all that far.  Just down the street, huh?_

They probably wanted to keep close after he died.  Jesus.  He hunched over, turning away from the door, hiding his face.  Scott opened it and called for her to come. 

 _Bucky always let his siblings win at hide and seek_.  He felt a gaze lock onto him, burning, before he saw her.

“ _Bucky_ ,” he heard her mutter, and the all the tenseness shattered.  He wanted to cry.  He looked up. 

“Hey, Becks,” he said quietly, opening his arms, “It’s been a while.”

* * *

She took him in like he was a feral cat, warm food and blankets included. 

“Oh please, take that jacket off while I get you some real clothes,” she grumbled, “Don’t tell me where you got it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky grumbled.  He hesitated.  When Becca turned a glare on him, he gingerly took off the jacket, and she eyed his arm, face going slack with shock. 

“Turns out when you let the Winter Soldier loose, he starts remembering that he’s not actually Hydra.  Yes, I’m the White Wolf.”

“Fucking sonsofbitches,” she growled.  Bucky nodded.  Kim and Scott looked like they wanted to pass out or run away. 

“Uncle Bucky was the Winter Soldier?” Kim asked tentatively. 

“Uncle Bucky was brainwashed.  It took a lot of time away from Hydra to get some gears turning again.  And seeing Becca—knowing my family is alive?  If anything is going to keep me grounded, it’s that.”

Kim grinned. 

“Best uncle ever.  Uncle Seb thinks I won’t get a job and that I’ll be, quote, ‘mooching off of your dear younger brother for the rest of your life, peddling cartoons’.  He hasn’t even seen my work.”

“You an artist?” Bucky guessed. 

She nodded, holding out her open backpack—full of cases of supplies and sketchbooks. 

* * *

Bucky stormed into Fury’s office.  His face was stony as he met the Director’s eyes. 

“You let me believe everyone I loved was dead.” 

Not a wince, just an incline of the head—so he’d intended it that way. 

“The only time we have record of you dealing with anyone you personally knew as the Winter Soldier was Howard Stark, and we all know how that went.  Forgive me if I was thinking safety first, Sargent.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky snapped, “Come on, Fury.  You may have secrets upon secrets, but I recovered.  That would have been a nice light at the end of the tunnel.  Why not tell them at the conference today?  Or was Scott there on purpose?”  Fury shook his head. 

“No.  The Howling Commandoes have a comradery dinner at the Barnes’s so often; Agent Trip let Scott in as a favor.  He’ll get due discipline for the privacy leak.”

“He’ll get a goddamn medal, if I have anything to say about it.”

“But you don’t.  I don’t trust your merry band of misfits, Barnes, no matter the medals they’ve got.”

“You can’t expect us all to subscribe to your brand of paranoia.  Try again.”

“Could it be that I was trying to protect you?” the director glowered.  “What would have happened, do you think, upon meeting ancient versions of your friends?  They’d moved on.  They’ve mourned you.  It’s been more than half a century, and you think that’s a good idea.”

“ _Yes._ ”  Because if he’d believed them dead, imagine _their_ fucking surprise. “Don’t do this again.”

“If I find out about any dead friends of yours being alive, you’ll be the first to know.  In fact, there’s one that we do know of, if you’ll be so kind as to listen without interruptions for five minutes.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but then motioned for him to continue. 

“Steve Rogers was found some years ago—before the Chitauri—frozen, preserved, in a glacier.  We thawed him out, but he made a break for it immediately, and we lost him.  He could be out there, but we have no indication of any unusual occurrences since he left, and no security cameras we have eyes on have found him.  He’s MIA, but probably alive.  After Hydra, who knows what happened.  As far as official records go, we attempted to train a super soldier, but he left the program without notice.  No one knows he’s the original but you, Agent Carter, Agent Coulson, and I.” 

Bucky turned on his heel and marched out the door, furious and euphoric and _what the hell, Steve, we both froze our way through seventy years and you outsmarted SHIELD running on nothing and I’m working for them.  Damn.  Fuck._

* * *

 Becca called in the siblings, but apparently Bucky wasn’t going to do his big reveal to the Commandoes quite yet. 

“I want them _all_ to be here at once. There’s always one conflict or another, but we all make it to Thanksgiving no matter what; besides, we can be a bit selfish with you first,” Becca said.

“Just let them in, Becks,” Bucky smiled. 

And she opened the door wide, smirking as her siblings stared, jaws dropping. 

“What?  No hugs for your big brother?” And they tackled him.  With their ages, it wasn’t exactly a ton of force or weight, but he leaned back to absorb it all the same. 

“I love you, Buck, god _damn_ , what is this?  How the hell are you here?”

“Well, you know how the White Wolf joined the Avengers after the big SHIELD mess?”

He waved his metal hand for emphasis. 

“You fucker,” Tonya accused, “Coming back to life and making _jokes_ , you jerk.”

“Would you expect anything less?” Bucky teased, but he was crying, too.  His sisters, his brothers, beyond all grown up—older than him and younger still.  It was an anomaly he’d never get over. 

But he’d never get enough of it.

“Now, Seb, what’s this I hear about putting Kim down for pursuing art?  You sure seemed enthusiastic to ask Stevie about it when we were kids.”

* * *

 Steve was numb.  God Almighty, he hated being numb. 

It made him feel like a scared little kid, not breathing right, in the winter.  It made him feel black and blue, covered in bruises but doped up a little when Ma managed to sneak some painkiller or other.  It made him feel _ice_. 

Seventy years of it, apparently. 

The world wanted Captain America.  He’d just started feeling like a real person again, and—well, the Avengers were amazing, he granted that.  They were _insane_ too, which wasn’t all that different from the Howlies, was it?  _No don’t think about the Howlies_. 

But Sharon Carter said she’d love to have Captain America back.  Peggy’s niece.  _Did they all have kids?_   Well, not all of them—Steve nearly burst out laughing at the thought of Gabe Jones having a kid. 

Their kids were his age or older.

He was swinging back and forth like a cartoon watch for a hypnotist, deeper and deeper in.  He’d already decided, despite his terror (despite the last time he was Captain America he couldn’t even save his best friend). 

He turned in his studies—Professor Rizzo commended him for the richness of the color, and he tried not to burst out into a rage or tears. 

Kim had finished her grandmother—no, wait. 

“What’s your grandmother’s name?  She looks familiar,” he asked.  She grinned. 

“You a Captain America nerd by chance?  Her name’s Rebecca Proctor-nee-Barnes.  Bucky Barnes’s sister.”

 _Fuck._   As they turned to their main projects, he pulled out the colored pastels, scritching short marks back and forth to loop the chain of the dog tags back around.  Added a reddish shadow, a rosy gleam.  Gold, a brilliance in the grey, warmth in the ice.    

He wasn’t the only one left. 

* * *

 “Coffee?” Scott offered.  Bucky sniffed.  He didn’t really like the sugary, creamy, flavored stuff.  Steve woulda gotten a kick out of it, though. 

“Black as my soul,” Scott promised. 

“And bitter as me,” Bucky replied, and his nephew snorted. 

“Not gonna respond to that.”  The door opened, and Scott went to help Kim haul her portfolio into the dining room. 

“Hey, Kim. Hey, uh, random dude with a beard.  Oh, you’re Roger, right?  Sorry for the mess, we weren’t expecting—”

“No, really, I’m sorry, I should have planned ahead.  Kim said to come over and—” Bucky nearly crushed the coffee mug in his hands when he heard that voice.  Frankly, he was choking as it was. 

“Damn, uh, uncle James, you all right?” Scott called.  But Bucky was done wheezing, because his breath was all caught up tight in his chest. 

_You motherfucker._

“ _Stevie?_ ” he all but squealed, taking two steps back, “What the hell, punk?”

Steve—with a thick beard and a leather jacket and were those Converse, what the hell—stood there, gobsmacked.  He dropped his own portfolio without a thought, eyes wide as he strode forward. 

“ _Bucky?!”_  

Scott glanced between the two of them, paled, muttered “oh shit,” and went upstairs.  Kim frowned. 

“Roger . . .?”

“ _Rogers_ is more like,” Bucky smirked, “Roger McGinnis, I take it?  He’s used that alias before.  Why don’t you head up with Scott for a minute, eh, Kim?  I gotta talk to Steve.”  She made the connection, jaw dropping, and followed her brother up. 

“Buck, how is this—how are you—”

“Apparently, we both have stories to tell.  Me being a brainwashed assassin, and you being an undercover art student of all things.”

“Assassin?”

“Oh, come here, punk,” Bucky grumbled, “I’ll explain as long as you do, too.”

* * *

 “You were the _Winter Soldier?_ ” Steve asked incredulously, “And now the White Wolf?  I did a paper on you for my Political Science course—what the everloving—”

“The weirdness continues.  Your guess is as good as mine as to why we’re both former popsicles; though I had intermissions in ice between missions, and you were just under the entire time.”

“Missions— _god_ —but it wasn’t your fault, Buck, it wasn’t—”

“It was my goddamn hands on the gun, Rogers, thanks,” Bucky snapped, “And I know what they did to me, but that doesn’t make me feel any less guilty.  Look, Steve . . . I am really glad to have you back.  Just, remember I have a life in this time, too.  We’re both different.  Doesn’t mean you’re not still my best friend; just that we’ve been apart awhile.”

Steve nodded solemnly. 

“So . . . the Avengers?”

“Yeah.  They’re pretty great, actually, despite all of our collective hang-ups and oddness.”

“Odd?  I’ll say.  You have what, a Norse god, a flying suit of armor, and—”

“I get it, geez.”

“—and a jerk with a metal arm,” Steve smirked.  “I was more wondering personally.  How are they?  What are they like?”

“Hell if I know.  We . . . don’t talk much, outside battle plans and training.  It’s easy to avoid one another in that big old tower; not that we _hate_ each other, but—”

“Do you have any friends?” Steve asked doubtfully.  Bucky nearly pouted at that face. 

“I’ll have you know Black Widow and I go out for drinks on Fridays and play poker.”

“Poker?”

“It devolves into a staring contest pretty quickly.  So, mister ‘do you have any friends?’, would you like to join the Avengers?  I wanna see the look on Fury’s face when I bring you into operations already future-adjusted.”

“I don’t know Fury, but if he was the one that had the fool idea of putting that baseball game on, I will gladly do it.”

* * *

 “I may or may not have kidnapped Captain America,” Bucky blurted during the debriefing.  Everyone startled.  It was a weekly meeting with just the Avengers, no SHIELD, so now was the time.  Barton’s eyes narrowed. 

“Is this a repressed memory thing that you just got, or—”

“No.  Stark, can you get out the specs for the Cap suit and bring out the shield?  I want to piss Fury off, and I know I can count on you to get on board with that.”  Stark’s eyes predictably sparkled. 

“Absolutely.  So, where’d you find Captain Crunch?” Bucky paused, baffled by the nickname, before shrugging.

“Would you believe he’s taking art classes with my grandniece?”  Banner blinked. 

“I—I almost do believe it?  Tony, do you—”

“So we’re handing him the armor, training with him occasionally, and then he jumps in on the next mission?”

“Better.  He moves in with us.  He can commute to school,” Bucky grinned, “That’s what his motorcycle is for anyway.” 

* * *

 Tony Stark was a little angry.  Not enough that, had he been the Hulk, he would have hulked-out, no—but he would have been on the edge of green.  Probably. 

Captain America had waltzed onto the team like he’d always been there. 

Sure, he’d been part of the plan, even opened up a new floor in the Tower for him, but—well.  Talking about it and actually having the Captain there were two different things. For one, he fit right into their group.  For another, he was actually—nice?  And really, how did _this_ guy evade SHIELD?  This guy who made the team feel like . . . actual friends.  Who pulled them together.  Damn. 

“What changed your mind about the team, Winghead?  Besides Terminator, obviously.” he’d asked the first time they could have a decent conversation without the others around.  “Clearly Fury put out a PR crew to find you early on.  Why now?  Pension not holding up?”  But instead of a sharp retort, the guy laughed. 

“Life caught up with me.  I can’t just stand by when . . . when I can be useful.  When I can help.  And you’d be surprised how few friends I have outside the mask, Tony.”

“Ouch.”  Okay, by that logic, Tony was totally on Cap’s side here, after all, he’d literally invited a team of superheroes to live with him, but—well, they weren’t exactly the same guy here. 

“Yeah.  I just—needed to put down where my convictions were.  I don’t even know if I can face the public,” he admitted.  “I don’t think the world really needs the guy behind the mask.  They need a symbol, whether I like it or not.”

“Hey, I don’t judge.  I mostly kept my identity secret because the man in the suit doesn’t really reflect the whole ‘superhero’ vibe.”

Cap frowned. 

“How so?”

“Put it this way—the public thinks I’m a warmongering, alcoholic, selfish lunatic that doesn’t fit in with the word ‘mighty’ and should be replaced with War Machine or someone else more respectable.  Big man in a suit, take that away, what am I?”

“I want to apologize about that,” Cap winced, “We were all kind of tense; I’m new to the group.  I should have recognized I was coming in too strong.  I was wrong, at any rate.”

“No, I think you hit it on the nose, Cap.  I’ve got money and brains, but that’s pretty superficial stuff.”

“It was unfair of me, and it wasn’t true.  But you weren’t wrong about me.  Everything special about me comes from a bottle,” he said derisively.  “If I undid what made me Captain America, no one would take me seriously.  They never did.”

“For what it’s worth,” Tony hesitated, “I grew up a huge fan of Captain America.  I idolized him and the Howling Commandoes.  I wanted . . . to be the kind of man Steve Rogers was made out to be.  Brave.  Honest.  Whatever else.  Major inferiority complex developed from being compared to big names like that, you know . . .  But I will say, you?  I take seriously.  You’re better than whatever image the old vets I knew tried to tell me about Captain America—you’re even better than the Cap I imagined, so kudos.  You outdid the original.” 

Cap was stunned, and Tony smirked. 

“A selfish lunatic wouldn’t say those things.  Maybe the public is wrong about you.”  Well damn.  There was Captain America, seeing good in him. 

He needed a drink.   

* * *

 Before

Bucky sat in the interrogation room, and apparently, he wasn’t SHIELD’s only prisoner. 

He passed by a man in green robes and armor and—were those horns?  The guy was skinny, and he had a fox’s smile. 

 _Well, then,_ an aristocratic voice said, but no one was speaking, _what have we here?_

“Who’s the schmuck pretending to be a princess?” Bucky asked aloud. 

_My name is Loki, whelp, and you’d do well to pay me respect._

“He’s not your problem,” the guard grumbled, “So shut up.”

Silent laughter. 

 _You want in my head?  Be my guest._   Bucky wrenched the biggest impression of a pair of middle fingers at the guy that he could muster. 

A force pummeled back, only to flinch as if burned. 

_What are you?_

_I’m the Soldier.  Whatever you are, Loki, you’d better shut up and stand aside._

_You will kneel before me._

* * *

 It wasn’t long before his interrogation got interrupted—Loki had escaped, and New York was under attack.  SHIELD was desperate, so they suited him back up and pointed him at the Chitauri. 

He fought alongside Widow and Hawkeye, making similar shots, but unlike most of them, he was both inhumanly strong and human-shaped, able to shoot and still barrel right through a few alien dronies. 

And then Stark flew a nuke into space. 

Natasha asked him whether or not to close the portal. 

“Close it,” Bucky said grimly.  Miraculously, Stark dropped like a rock from the portal as it closed, and the Hulk caught him.  Bucky glanced around at the destruction. 

And apparently some crappy schwarma place was open despite alien invasions.  Afterwards, Stark opened up his tower, and Bucky gladly moved in.  There were tentative friendships—him and Natalia, Stark and Banner—but nothing particularly strong.  They worked well together as a team. 

Bucky still had nightmares about blood, ice, and steel.

* * *

 T’Challa was actually an interesting man, once he stopped chasing Bucky down.  He was an impressive fighter, and apparently a king.  Bucky was thankful, though, that someone had managed to get the guy more information—and that his sister had taken a liking to him. 

“You’ll be needing a new arm, White Wolf,” the girl insisted, “And I’ll be taking care of it.  You just sit back and relax.  My brother found a CIA agent in trouble and I have to go take care of him for a moment.” Shuri fixed his arm, and with the help of Wakandan psychologists and neuroscientists, his brain was finally free of Hydra’s programing.  He wouldn’t respond to commands anymore, even if they used triggers.

“Why’d you call me white wolf?” he asked Shuri before heading back to New York. 

“Because,” she shrugged, “You’re wild, you’re strange.  You’re a hunter, a part of a pack.  Also, it annoys my brother,” she smiled.  Ah—Black Panther, White Wolf.  He could see that. 

Not a bad callsign, actually. 

* * *

 Now

It was a mass of drones sent from Justin Hammer on commission from Dr. Doom, which meant that it was an easy mission to start with.  Steve gave suggestions and, once they were actually on the ground, took charge.  Bucky was thrilled in a way he hadn’t been since he’d first broken programming. 

 _Good to see you, punk._  

Steve tossed his shield at Bucky, who caught it and bashed three drones with it before sending it back and shooting a few more down. 

It was a complete success with minor damage on all parts.  The mission couldn’t have gone any better.  Bucky smiled wryly under the mask, rolling his shoulders and crushing the core of another bot with his left hand. 

“Cap, we’ve got reporters incoming.  You want to say hi?” Stark called on the comm. 

“Let’s give ‘em a show,” Steve nodded.

“What is this?!” gasped a young lady with her smartphone as a recording device.  She was an amateur—Steve later told them she was actually in one of his communications classes—which made her the best person to talk to. 

“Just the Avengers,” Steve grinned good-naturedly.  He was a troll before anyone came up with the word.  Bucky was sure of it. 

“And you’re Captain America?  Are there sources that can confirm you’re officially the Captain from here on out?”

“Well, ma’am,” Bucky grinned, though no one could see it, “Considering Tony Stark and I both approved of his joining the team, I think it’s safe to say we’ve got ourselves a Cap.  He works well with us and is bringing the team together like we haven’t been quite able to manage yet.  I know most people won’t take me vouching for him, but I do—and so does the rest of the team.”

“Not many instances of you and Iron Man agreeing,” said another who’d come in halfway through his question.  “Do you know the rest of the Avengers’ identities?”

“Just the public ones and the White Wolf,” Steve said, “But we kind of surprised each other as civilians and it spiraled from there.  We’ve got to debrief at SHIELD; I’m sure one of their liaisons or Ms. Potts will be contacting an agency or two for press conferences about my status.  Thank you, and no comment on the rest quite yet.”

* * *

 While Fury was reaming them, Coulson was practically vibrating.  Bucky chuckled at his enthusiasm. 

“Captain Rogers, it really is an honor—”

“You keep your mouth shut, Agent.  It appears someone found Captain America and didn’t report it.”

“All due respect, Director, but I don’t really give a fuck about reporting it when he was doing just fine and so was I.  There haven’t been any major disasters yet and the entire team pretty much loves him, so just sign him into the Initiative and be done.  Ta-da.”

“Somehow, I feel like we only need one sarcastic super-soldier on this team, and don’t think I don’t see that grin there, Rogers.”

“I won’t even begin to point out the flaw in logic, but if I must defend my case: I am the best sniper SHIELD has. Steve isn’t.”

“We’ve got Barton for that.”  So, they were playing _that_ game. 

“I’m former Hydra and KGB,” Bucky continued, “And before you say a word about Natasha, I trained her.  Try again.”  Fury just sneered and stalked out.  Bucky checked his phone idly, as his siblings, nieces, and nephews liked to be nosy.

Bucky opened a text from Becca first.  Her exact message was:

_I swear on your empty grave Buck if Captain America is actually Steve I will tell everyone about the malt shop and the chalk_

When Steve leaned over and read the message, having seen Bucky go white, he choked on whatever his response was going to be. 

“She knew about that?!”

“This is Becca, Stevie; she knows everything.  Probably about Tommy Jenkins, the chickens, and the maple syrup, too.”

“What’s this about maple syrup?” asked Barton.  They just both shook their heads, both silently vowing never to let Clint Barton meet Rebecca Barnes. 

* * *

 “Mind if I bring a guest or two to Thanksgiving, Becks?  I think we’ll need the two, but it’ll be hard to convince Stark to come over.”

“Just sic Peggy on him; she’s his godmother.  He breaks down in the face of strong women,” she replied, “As a matter of fact, introduce Pepper Potts to her.  That’ll scare him into it.”  Bucky whistled appreciatively. 

“I like how in a few short weeks I’ve managed to give you enough intel on the team that you can predict their actions.  Forget me, Hydra should have tried for you.  They’d be ruling the world already.”

“They’d be up in flames because they dared lay a finger on you,” she replied sweetly.  “So that makes . . . Us five, your two, Peggy, the six runts, Dugan, Morita, Falsworth, Jones, and Dernier.  That makes nineteen, Jesus.”

“Six runts?”

“Jeff’s kid and grandkid, my son George, Kim, Scott, and Trip.”

“Trip?”

“Agent Trip—Gabe’s grandson?  The SHIELD agent?”

“Fucking hell, he had a kid?!”

“A daughter,” Rebecca groaned, “And knowing him, I understand your shock.  Antoine’s a nice boy, though, didn’t inherit the crazy.”

“Thank the lord for small miracles.  Anyone more prone to heart attacks than average?  I don’t want to kill anyone by coming over.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it.  We survived you the first time around, didn’t we?”

"Shaddup, punk."

* * *

 “Cap, Stark, could I talk to you guys for a few?  It’s a family thing.”

“Uh, sure?” Stark was definitely perplexed, but Steve seemed to know what was happening. 

“You’re both free on Thanksgiving, right?  Great.  Come over.  My siblings and the Commandoes do a thing every year, and I’m going to surprise them.  With myself and with you two.”

“Hah, well, doesn’t seem like something I’ll be welcome at, huh, Barnes?” Stark snorted. 

“Peggy would beg to differ.  Don’t think I can negotiate embarrassing kid photos out of her to show the team,” Bucky warned. 

And luckily, that was all it took.  Steve just grinned and nodded. 

“We’ll give the Howlies a run for their money, eh, Buck?”  Tony’s eyes bulged. 

“You’re—” Tony blinked owlishly as Steve took off his cowl and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Nice to meet you, Tony.  I’m Steve Rogers.”

“ . . . What the fuuuuuu—”

* * *

After that, Tony insisted that he was on board with the whole “dinner with the Barnes family” thing from the start.  Everyone who heard this claim would just smile indulgently and move on to another point of conversation, of course.  The Howlies just laughed—they didn’t even bother trying to help him save face. 

“I knew you when you were still trick-or-treating in a Cap costume,” warned Dugan, which mortified Tony all the more because _Steve and Bucky were literally in the next room waiting for everyone to be there_. 

“I was literally brought up on stories about him,” the billionaire complained, “Who else did you expect me to dress up as?  I’d already gone as Tesla.”

“I’m sure Steve would have been flattered,” Peggy smiled primly.  _God make it stop.  Wait, I know a god—Thor? Help a buddy out here? That had better cue them in I can’t take this anymore—_

“No, really, do go on,” Steve said from the doorway, huge grin on his face.  Bucky was leaning against the doorframe behind him, arms crossed.  The room fell silent. 

“I’ve gotta see pictures of this.  You know, for blackmail purposes?” Bucky said. 

“I hate you both,” Tony muttered. 

Meanwhile, everyone had broken out of whatever stupor it was and exploded with excitement. 

“You absolute wankers!” Falsworth cried in outrage. 

“Is it really . . .” Peggy looked stunned, which was probably the biggest surprise of all. 

“As it turns out, SHIELD found me in a glacier, and Hydra found Bucky in the Alps.  In reverse order, mind—I was only found a few months before the Chitauri attack.”

“Which you were a part of,” accused Dugan, “Barnes, _you’re_ the White Wolf?  The Winter Soldier?”

“да,” Bucky shrugged.  “. . . Сюрприз?”

“I’m surprised, all right,” Becca said, “They’re getting the rundown of the malt shop thing, Buck.  You didn’t tell me.”

“Aw, come on, Becks,” Steve whined, “Wouldn’t you rather catch up than rehash old news?”

“Don’t you worry; I’ll pull out the photo albums of Tony,” Peggy smiled, “Perhaps we can do it at Christmas?”

“Ooh, bring your new team,” suggested Dernier, “I’d love to meet the famous Black Widow.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bucky said, but the Howlies were having none of it. 

“What, they’re too young to like us? I’ll have you know, Barnes, you’re the oldest one here, bar Morita.”

“By a few months!” Jim argued. 

“No, you’ll get along just fine.  It’s self-preservation, really.  You all meeting will end in explosions.” Bucky wanted to laugh—Steve had no self-preservation; that was a horrible excuse. 

“Good explosions, though.  Fireworks.  Blown up villain bases.” Dernier insisted.

That earned a snort from everyone around the table. 

“Well, don’t just sit there laughing at them—everyone, eat, eat!” urged Becca.

* * *

Before

Steve had never particularly liked winter.  Winter meant his body was weak, susceptible to everything.  It was something to be survived.  He’d wake up, breath ragged, or he’d not sleep, shivering too hard to calm.  The cold always managed to seep into his bones, in his blood.  It always spelled trouble. 

Maybe that’s why the train had bothered him from the start.  He felt the cold in his fingers, even though all the Howlies had proclaimed him their “human furnace”, now that the serum kept him from feeling the cold so much except in extremes.  The echoes of cold stuck with him, a quiet ache in his heart and his fingers that had failed to reach Bucky in time, that had failed to fling himself off after him.

Fingers that shook as he steered that plane into the ice, a flash of _god it’s so cold_ —

And groggy, waking up.  His hands always felt cold now, ice against his body whenever he curled up to sleep.  A little ice left over, a penance, something that crawled into his nightmares like frost up a window. 

* * *

 Now

His hands were sweaty as he worked.  He’d talked to Rizzo about his final project—a series of gifts for friends, and how he was planning on working on graphic novels anyway if he could find a good writer to work with him.  The color dynamics were working in his favor, now—he’d managed to wrangle it all into something intelligible with the dog tags and the still life that followed.  Kim asked a photography minor friend—Peter something—for some help gathering images for her project—a portrait of her and her brother as Captain America and Bucky Barnes. 

“It’s family history and heroes,” she grinned, “That’s the focus of my work this year, after all.  Don’t act so surprised.”  Steve only rolled his eyes (well, that’s a lie; he also complemented the fact that she implemented his suit, Peggy Carter’s uniform, and a bit of USO flair to create the costume she wore for it.  Scott played the part of Bucky well, smirk in place, and the family resemblance was clear. 

Steve was still wracked with nerves turning his project in, while Kim simply shrugged and said, “He’ll love or hate it, but he has to grade based off of guidelines.  I followed the guidelines.  Figure drawing, here I come!”

The conference and portfolio review couldn’t come fast enough. 

“I like the tie-in of the metallic linework,” the professor commented, leafing through the cover pages he’d created, “The Avengers?  Nice.  Who’s your favorite?”

“Well,” Steve stammered, “Probably White Wolf?”

“Nice.  I’m more of a Thor kinda guy, myself—love mythology and all—I did an entire series on mythological tricksters before the first invasion, you know.  Loki is very different from the stories they tell.”

“You can say that again,” Steve grumbled, thinking on the last encounter they’d had with the god, who had scaled his attacks down to annoying pranks and general taunting in public by now. 

“Anyway—you sell these comics and I will definitely buy.  Whoever your writer is, make sure they have contact with the Avengers or their PR staff—you’d want the stories as close to reality as possible.”

“Right.”

He’d talk to Tony about the licensing rights later.  For now, Steve had Christmas gifts to frame up for his family.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is just a fun thing because Bucky is probably my favorite, and I am not prepared for the pain Infinity War will likely induce, so I'm going to write things in the meantime. I think if I end up posting any more of this verse, however, it won't be gen, it'll have some ships going for it. You've been warned! Also, my characterization for Bucky maaaay have something to do with the "life of Bucky Barnes insta", which, for Stucky shippers, I definitely recommend following. (I'll edit this note later to include links and inspirations, but I wanted to get the fic out there first)  
> I'm a sucker for the Barnes family, I really, truly am. And identity reveal stuff. This is no surprise to people who've read my other work, but I thought I'd make it clear. I don't use a beta, so feel free if necessary to point out glaring mistakes or any tags you think this is seriously lacking. I love comments large and small, so long as you're respectful, so have at it!
> 
> Bucky's Russian near the end: "Yes. Surprise?"


End file.
